Dear diary,

So as you read this, it will be D-day for me. For today I find out if I can be allowed to trot for a few minutes in among all the walking. The lots and lots and lots of walking. I’m praying to any god who will listen that mother wears a low-cut top and during the trot-up that Herman is too distracted by the sight of her airbags bouncing about like two cats fighting in a sack to even notice I’ve got legs, let alone whether I’m sound on any of them…

I mean the woman is an utter embarrassment on a good day so I might as well use this to my advantage right?

Seriously, if I’m not allowed to trot I’m going to just stick a brush handle up an orifice and auction myself off as a carousel horse, such is the level of boredom I have reached.

The other day it was blowing an utter gale and raining sideways and she-who-must-be-obeyed STILL insisted on us meandering around the school. In an attempt to dodge the raindrops I might have even started to do a passable leg yield but was harshly reprimanded — the woman wants to make her mind up. Usually I get a total ear full about my lack of stressage skills and complete belief that any move involving cross my legs over is the work of the devil.

The new lady who looks after mini-mother was offered a ride on me the other day but — wait for this — she turned it down. I mean what the flip flop is that all about? There are literally people around the world who would love to sit on a proper horse just once in their lives and she turns me down. Just ask my mate Mr Billington; at Your Horse is Alive last year when I appeared in the main arena with him (did I ever mention that at all?!), the amount of time he spent on me prior to the curtain going back got longer and longer as he wistfully realised that this was what horse power was really about. Even one of the young showjumpers who were appearing with him asked to sit on me — if looks could have killed then the evils I got off her pony would have had me in a lasagne faster than you can say parmesan…

Mum is also now on the hunt for new winter rugs for me following the unfortunate recent incident with my beautifully fitted medium weight which has now gone to rug heaven. RIP rug. The problem being is that so few rug companies make rugs that can clad my magnificent manly frame without either choking me around the neck piece, giving me the appearance of wearing a mini skirt or causing me to burst forth so much at the chest area that I look like a page three wannabe: Clydesdale cleavage is NOT attractive people, not at all. Mother was last seeing crying over her laptop and wailing about buying a thoroughbred next time. Next time? How on earth could she ever look at another horse again after me? I am quite frankly irreplaceable — just ask my insurance company…

So I’m off to pray to anyone listening for Herman to be either in a good mood or to have developed a sudden temporary eyesight issue such that I get clearance for some trotting. I’m not sure any of us can cope with the crying and snotting that will ensue if he says no — and that’s just from me.

Continued below…

Keep everything crossed for me and buy some tissues for mother just in case. Lots and lots of tissues.

Laters,
Hovis